


Winter's Tales: The Masquerade

by AllTheBellsInVenice



Series: Winter's Tales [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 100 follower ficlets, Ballo del Doge, F/M, Light BDSM, Masquerade, Prompt Fill, Sherlolly - Freeform, Winter universe, dance, minor casefic, play restraint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheBellsInVenice/pseuds/AllTheBellsInVenice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sweeps Molly into a glittering world on a night like no other, tasting a drop of intrigue and opening a hidden door along the way. Set in my Winter universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's Tales: The Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onedayer](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=onedayer).



> First published on Tumblr to fill the following prompt from @onedayer:
> 
> _Okay been banging around my head for a few days. I'd like a masquerade ball please. Phantom of the Opera style or something. You know what to do, just work your magic._

He pressed her down against the rich golden damask of the settee, his mouth demanding on the tops of her breasts where they bubbled up over that low, square neckline that had once scandalized her so. His hands were rummaging under her voluminous petticoats, pushing the pannier hoops out of alignment; she found she didn’t care. She wanted to unwind his white cravat and slide her mouth against that long neck, tear open his waistcoat and slip her hand inside his linens to see what she might find there.

In the glow of the candlelight, his eyes were a clear blue-green; they glittered at her as he hovered, his face an inch from hers, his lips swollen and pink with kisses. She could smell his warm skin, mingled with the scents of beeswax and prosecco and dust and the faint whiff of damp and ancient varnish that was the slowly crumbling palazzo. Faint laughter tinkled in the air all around them like flashes of flame refracted through the twisted Murano-glass chandelier, and just outside the casement window, the Grand Canal glimmered darkly against the lanterns on the palazzo’s dock.

 _“Signorina,”_ he murmured, so that none of the other revelers in the room might overhear, despite their distraction, “your stays are most inconvenient.” He tugged lightly on her flesh until he had exposed one rosy nipple to the soft light, then dropped his mouth once more. And she was grateful he’d left off his stuffy white peruque as she threaded her fingers through his dark curls. His hand under her petticoats finally slid against the skin of her thigh, and she let her head drop gently back against the rolled arm of the settee, delicately, so as not to muss her feathers or her pretty curls. 

A bright chime sounded in the little room; a few of the other party guests turned their heads, annoyed. With a put-upon sigh, her gallant suitor rummaged in his frock coat and pulled out his iPhone. The cold glow of the screen lit his face as he read the text. 

“Sorry, Molly,” Sherlock said, stuffing the phone back in his coat and getting to his feet. “It seems our _petite liaison dangereuse_ is being rudely interrupted.” He rolled his eyes. 

“For the case?” Molly said, clambering to a sitting position with one hand on the front of her bodice. The stays did not compress her waist, but they were stiff. She pulled her breasts back into place for the tenth time that night.

“It seems we are wanted in the ballroom.” Sherlock took her hands and helped her get to her feet, then bent to rearrange her pink and gold gown and her layers of petticoats while Molly patted at her curls and the low puff of her pompadour. “Mycroft believes he may have identified our target, and requires me to concur.” He offered his arm. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Molly picked up the black varnished _bauta_ mask from the spindly-legged table where he’d dropped it. 

Sherlock pursed his kiss-swollen lips, but accepted the mask and tied its ribbons behind his head as Molly picked up her own _moretta muta_ mask, which had no ribbons and covered only the very front of her face. She hesitated a moment before putting it on; this traditional mask type was held against her face by a bite-piece inside her mouth. When Molly put it on, it would effectively become a gag. 

And Sherlock was watching her with a smirk that she read in the crinkles around his narrowed eyes. Of course, he’d chosen the _moretta muta,_ along with her entire ensemble. He rarely gagged her during their play, because, he said, he loved to hear her cries and pleas. But he did adore making her uncomfortable, inventing little predicaments to frustrate her and throw her off-balance. 

Trust Sherlock to work a little domming into their trip to Italy, Molly thought. She lifted the mask and slid the bite-piece between her teeth.

Molly took Sherlock’s arm, and he swept her through several tall rooms overflowing with celebrants in lace and heavy silks, speaking a dozen languages, their trailing sleeves and slim-cut frock coats reflecting the candlelight in a thousand pastel candy colors. Uniformed footmen brushed past them with trays of full glasses and small, tasty things; Sherlock reached over and pilfered a morsel, then popped it into his mouth under the _bauta’s_ jutting mouthpiece, as the mask was designed to allow him. Molly narrowed her eyes at Sherlock; of course, she could eat nothing while wearing the _moretta muta._ She could hear him snickering, the bastard.

The great room at the center of the palace was alive with music played by the ball’s chamber orchestra, and glittering couples whirled under the vast painted ceiling in the embrace of the waltz. “Dance with me,” Sherlock whispered near her ear. She turned her face toward him sharply, and Sherlock responded just as if she’d spoken. “Mycroft can wait. It’s the Vienna Blood Waltz. Nineteenth century, not eighteenth, but who cares.” Then his right hand slipped around her back and his left hand took her right, and he stepped ahead of her to begin their clockwise whirl, and they were off. 

Molly sighed happily behind her mask; until a short time ago, she had not danced since uni. But Sherlock’s expert lead was easy to follow, firm but flexible, and after recently relearning the footwork she had only to follow her instinctive responses to the guiding press of his hands. They floated down the floor, spinning around each other like a pair of binary stars, always traveling in a wide circle around the ballroom in the great flow of the dance. 

Sherlock knew the music well, unerringly guiding her through the lilts and sensual pauses and sprightly sections. He did not spin Molly, having run afoul of her gown’s short train earlier in the evening (no one had yet been waltzing in the eighteenth century, and the fashion of the day reflected this), but he turned himself, spinning quickly in her arms before catching her waist again, showing off like the peacock he was. Molly smiled around her bite-piece. 

As Sherlock whirled her around the room, she caught a hundred glimpses out of the corner of her eye: a man in the garb of a sultan clinked glasses with a woman whose white dress sparkled like tears; a graceful man swept by in a gown of lush green velvet, his gem-red lips glinting; two footmen bent their heads to converse in a doorway; a man with horns like a ram’s bent low to a woman crowned by dove-perched branches from an enchanted tree. All the chandeliers burned candles, whose light chased along the golden filigree on walls and ceiling; outside the stone-laced windows, the Canal glimmered on endlessly.

Then an unpleasantly familiar set of grey eyes caught her attention, set into the mask of a predator bird from some world of fire. The tall man was staring at them impatiently from his seat at a side table, tapping one black-gloved finger against his water glass. 

Molly stiffened her body and pressed her hand on his shoulder, and Sherlock responded naturally to her signal for caution. Seeing no obstacle ahead on the dance floor, he glanced around as he rocked them in place for a measure or two, forward and backward, before his hands bade her whirl into the waltz once more. 

“I told you, Mycroft can wait. We came all the way here. I’m going to enjoy myself tonight,” he told her, before reversing the waltz so that they turned counterclockwise in the style of the Viennese. Oh, he did like to keep her off-balance. “In fact, I plan to spend as little time solving this case as possible. And I intend to enjoy you,” he said, pulling her very close for a fast spin, “to the hilt.” And Molly blushed behind her mask.

The piece ended in its triumphant flourish, and Sherlock led Molly off the dance floor to the table beside Mycroft’s. The woman Molly knew only as “Anthea” was sitting on Mycroft’s other side, dressed in black satin and somehow managing to look bored even at this extraordinary Ballo del Doge. 

“Have you spotted him yet, brother dear?” Mycroft asked, leaning toward Sherlock and extending a languid hand toward the dance floor. He didn’t acknowledge Molly at all, which was fine by her.

“‘Course I have,” Sherlock drawled. “Child’s play.” Behind the mask, his eyes darted around the room.

“Quite.” Mycroft thumbed his reddish damask coat with some distaste. “And have you been enjoying...playtime this evening? Such events are havens for rank sentimentality and self-indulgence, but you do seem to have risen to the occasion with avidity.” His grey eyes looked sidelong at Sherlock’s glittering, beautifully fitted ensemble, midnight-blue velvet chased with silver and a sprinkling of royal-blue rhinestones across his shoulders. 

“You’ve never risen to any occasion in your life, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied acidly. “Where did you rent that getup, anyway? I take it you failed to make a reservation at a decent atelier and had to make do with the dregs. Surprised they let you in.”

“Not all of us maintain, ah, costume closets,” Mycroft said with a roll of his eyes. “Well? Go on, then, Sherlock. Why don’t you share your thoughts with the whole class. Is it him?” Mycroft inquired, bending his head toward a tall man standing alone by a curtain and watching the dancers. 

Sherlock smirked and cocked his head. “Not him,” he replied.

“Why?” Mycroft scratched under his mask and set his chin into his hand. “Are you sure you’re not put at a terrible disadvantage by the fact that everyone here is in costume, and many masked?”

“I saw that man hesitating near the palazzo’s dock, while Molly and I were being handed out of our water taxi. Checking his ticket. Bitten fingernails, cannot dance, knows no one here. The target is an habitue of these events; he never comes out of hiding except for this festival, in this city. Our friend over there is a first-timer.”

“Obvious.” Mycroft gave a delicate yawn. “What about that man in the yellow?” 

“Never married, as you can well see,” Sherlock said. “Rather difficult to be a murderer of seven wives in that state. Could still be a serial killer, though.” He shrugged.

“How about the one in the green-gold?” Mycroft asked. 

“Certainly not. Did you see the buttonholes on his waistcoat? Handmade, but not professionally; too uneven. And the garment is hand-embroidered. Only an adoring wife would do that for a man, and,” Sherlock pointed with his chin, “she’s standing right over there, very content and quite unmurdered. Her gown is the same green-gold fabric.”

“Then,” Mycroft said, folding his hands on the table, “whom?”

“That one,” Sherlock said. He nodded shortly toward a figure completely muffled in a mask, black cloak, and tricorn hat. 

Mycroft’s face betrayed nothing. “Why?”

“It’s a traditional full _bauta_ ensemble,” Sherlock said, sitting straighter and glancing at Molly through his mask, as if to make sure she was paying attention. “The materials are of the highest quality. The collar fits precisely and the hem is perfectly even; it’s not rented. There are remnants of crush marks in the velvet from long storage in one position, but they’ve been expertly repaired, and the garment stored properly in following years. The shoes are Italian-made, high quality but inauthentic to the rest of the costume. Obviously an habitue but seeking anonymity. Enamoured of this city’s history and traditions, but nonetheless wearing his favored ensemble only once a year. The garment was lovingly handmade for him many years ago by a now-deceased wife and is retained for sentimental reasons, despite its wear. And he has recently purchased new shoes from a local shop. Conclusion: our murderer, who evaded your agent yesterday near the Rialto but fled south toward the rising _acqua alta,_ only to ruin his custom-made costume shoes in the flooded area.” 

Sherlock leaned back in his spindly chair and set a finger to his temple. “There. Now, for god’s sake, may we please return to the dance floor?” 

Mycroft gave a heavy sigh. He clicked his fingers, and several of the burlier footmen came forward. Mycroft set his forearm on the table and pointed directly at the caped man; the footmen closed in. Molly caught the tiny flash of a syringe, and the man slumped into their arms and was half-carried across the room and down the grand staircase. It had all happened in a moment, unremarked by almost no one but themselves.

“I suppose you have my gratitude, brother dear,” Mycroft said, standing alongside the furiously texting Anthea. “How unexpected that your little eccentricity regarding this sinking city would actually help Interpol take down one of their most wanted criminals. I suppose you’ve served your function tonight.”

“As have you,” Sherlock said sharply. “Too many spectres at this feast. The sooner you scuttle back to England, the better.”

“Nothing would please me more,” Mycroft retorted. “Enjoy your fun and games. Napoleon was right to cancel this debauchery in 1797; it’s frankly an embarrassment.”

“Ah, but surely you heard that the the citizens just voted to secede from Italy and plan to become a city-state once more? It seems _La Serenissima_ will rise again.” Sherlock stood and offered Molly his hand. “I trust you can let yourself out.” Not waiting for Mycroft’s response, Sherlock caught Molly’s waist and pulled them back into the flow of the waltz. 

Of course Molly could say nothing with the mask’s bite-piece still in place, but she hummed her approval in his ear. Sherlock grinned, crinkling his eyes at her. “Impressed?” 

“Mm-hmm,” Molly replied, smiling around her bite-piece as the room whirled around her.

“Do I get a reward? I did just prevent the future murders of an untold number of women before your very eyes.” Sherlock suddenly spun her out of the ballroom and into one of the nearly deserted side rooms. 

“Of course I deserve a reward. And I think I’ll take it right now.” Looking over his shoulder for watchers, he grasped a lily-shaped bit of golden filigree on the wall and turned it, easing open a little door that had been almost invisible. He hurried Molly through into dimness and shut the door behind them. 

The tall window let in a little light from the other palazzos lining the Canal, and Molly saw a small room, sparsely furnished and rather dusty. Sherlock tossed aside his coat and pushed Molly onto the settee, tossing his mask aside, then taking the _moretta muta_ mask from her face and out of her mouth before kissing her violently. 

“Ah,” Molly gasped against his lips, “so good to have that thing off.”

“I’ve told you, I like to hear you cry,” Sherlock said, pulling her breasts up out of her stays. He bit and twisted her nipples, making her whimper, then slid down to kneel on the floor, tossing her petticoats over his head. His hands grasped her knees and spread her thighs far apart. 

“No knickers, Molly, how deliciously authentic,” Sherlock growled, muffled by her skirts, right before she felt his long tongue laving against her pussy. 

Molly lay back against the roll-arm of the settee and sighed her delight; with the moon peeking in through the window and the faint lapping of the water against the palazzo walls, she felt she could almost be a courtesan in another century, before the Republic had fallen, when this city had ruled the Mediterranean for a thousand years...

Sherlock’s face appeared again, his mouth wet with her juices. “Turn over,” he whispered. 

Obediently, Molly bent herself over the arm of the settee, bracing her hands against the casement. Sherlock was swiftly behind her, pulling up her skirts and fumbling with the less-familiar double-flap closure of his breeches. In a moment, his cock was sliding inside her, and Molly leaned back against his hips with a low moan. Luxuriating in the pressure of his thrusts, she fell into a reverie, imagining the other little liaisons that must have taken place in this palazzo, this very room, in the old days of debauchery and excess. If these gilded walls could talk…

Sherlock’s wicked hand snaked around her body and administered a light slap to her clit, and Molly’s heart gave a jump. “Pay attention,” he snarled lowly in her ear. He gave her another slap. “Just think about serving me, serving your master. Only my pleasure matters now.”

His fingers now rubbed soothingly at her stinging, wet flesh, giving the lie to his words, and Molly bit back a little cry. Her excitement was rising faster than it ever had, she was closer to her peak than she wanted to be at the moment, but Sherlock was giving her no mercy. She heard a low chuckle behind her back. 

“So excited, are we. Molly, we mustn’t be discovered in this hidden room. You’re so wanton, you don’t care who hears you scream. So I’m going to hold my hand over your mouth, and then you can wail and struggle to your heart’s content. Give me three short, sharp moans in a row if it all becomes too much.”

Molly felt his hard fingers clamping her mouth shut, and in sudden inspiration she leaned one shoulder against the settee and put her hands behind her back. Sherlock understood immediately and grasped her wrists, restraining and muffling her as he continued to thrust against her bottom.

“Naughty girl,” he purred into her ear, “wanting to be taken like this.” Molly answered him with a long low moan against his tightly pressing hand, and pushed her hips back for more, more. The tighter he held her mouth and wrists, the more helpless she was able to feel, and the more excited she became…

With a final jerk of her hips, Molly came, giving a loud cry into Sherlock’s hand. With a gasp, Sherlock released her and gripped her hips, giving her sharp thrusts, and in a matter of moments he was moaning out his climax into the long curls at her neck. 

He held her there for a long moment, then rummaged in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, holding it against Molly before drawing himself out of her. “It won’t do to leave a little mess in these fine linens and silks,” Sherlock told her, smiling. 

And they lay on the settee in the moonlight for many minutes, holding each other and listening to the sounds of laughter and music just outside the hidden door, and the peaceful sounds of the water outside. 

Finally Sherlock raised his head and grinned at her. “I hope you’re enjoying the Most Serene Republic, my Molly,” he said. 

“Oh, Sherlock...I want to dance,” she whispered back. 

And Sherlock took Molly back to the glittering dance floor, where they held each other hungrily, dancing the antique steps among their fellow dreamers for as long as there was music, for as long as the night lasted, in the heart of the dying city by the moonlit lagoon.


End file.
